


The Book and the Sword

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Da Vinci Code - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-28
Updated: 2007-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:00:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories and reflections in Silas' and Aringarosa's lives. (slight AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book and the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Written for numinicious

 

 

 **Notes** : I took some liberties with the timeframe of this fic. I'm not particularly familiar with the fandom ; I've done some research for the sake of this assignment and according to what I read, both Silas and Aringarosa are in their forties when the canon's action takes place, which would mean they were born in the late 1950's - early 60's. For this story I was interested using the political context in Spain right after the civil war, around the years when the Opus Dei was 'officialized' by the Pope and saw its influence grow ; so I situated Aringarosa's adolescence in the mid-to-late 1940's. I also included two original characters, one of which plays a fairly important part in the fic. I'm not sure these two elements make it qualify as AU, so let's call it " _slightly_ AU", shall we?

I didn't base exclusively on the book or the movie - I mixed elements of both.

**

The parts in italics are Manuel Aringarosa's "sequences" - his timeframe/pov.

The parts in regular text are Silas'.

**

To my recipient : I hope this will be okay with you, and that you'll like it. Thank you for the post you made in your LJ, it was really helpful. Enjoy your present!

  
  
I.  
  
 _"Manuel!"_  
  
The maid's call breaks his concentration, and he frowns, fighting off the irritation as it threatens to rise. He's kneeling on the side of his small bed, his elbows and hands comfortably resting on the still-warm sheets. He was trying to give his morning prayer, attempting, with his eyes shut so tight they hurt - but a bit of pain seemed to help, didn't it? - to feel each word as it formed in his mind, each of the words he had learned by heart, giving them new meaning every time, as father Ignacio had commanded. It was starting to work, he's sure of it, but now Clara is calling and Manuel must go get dressed for the day.  
  
"Manuel, come see the soldiers!"  
  
Soldiers? Yes, there's noise in the streets below, how could he not have heard it? He always loves to see the soldiers march off to God only knows where, looking happy and proud to fight for a better world, their dark uniform casting a noble, grave shadow on the city that burns in the golden summer sun, arousing people's fears and hopes. It's not clear yet, of course, he doesn't know the words, but he misses that tingling feeling of admiration when it stops as they disappear, and he feels love for them, almost, the same trembling love he feels when his fingers close tight on the small crucifix father Ignacio gave him. He yearns -  
  
Clara bursts into the room.   
  
"You'll miss them. They're almost gone already."  
  
She opens the window and lets the light in. Manuel gets up and rushes to the sill and bends over it ; she holds him back. He's twelve already, but looking slight as an eight year-old, without much more strength. A little too far and he would fly off like a leaf in the wind.  
  
"Aren't they beautiful?" Clara pines, her hands still on Manuel's shoulders. He glances up at her, cocking an eyebrow. So this is all her woman's eyes can see.  
  
"Father Ignacio says God has a sword in one hand, and a book in the other," he explains with a touch of arrogance in his child's voice. "And the men of el Caudillo are His sword, and the men of the Church are His book."  
  
"Father Ignacio says a lot of things," Clara dismisses with a sigh. Her fiancé - Manuel thinks he remembers her talking about him, but he rarely pays much attention - has gone with the army somewhere in the North to destroy the rebels that live on the frontier. The Reds, they are called. Red, the color of Hell, as father Ignacio often points, red, a color they embraced themselves, out of their own free will, like an open rejection of the love of Christ. Some of God's signs are clearer than others. Manuel knows that if father Ignacio hadn't become a priest, he would be a soldier too. He's young enough and strong enough to fight, and often his eyes become narrow and his gestures quicken and it seems like the words of his sermons are no longer enough to express his righteous anger.   
  
Someone calls out something from a window across the street, and it resonates in the solemn silence of the soldiers' departure, strange and shocking ; Manuel's heart freezes for a moment - was it an insult? He couldn't make it out. But Clara's hands don't tighten on his shoulders and he immediately hears the soldiers responding with their cry of battle, the powerful, radical cry of their sacrifice, the one that makes Manuel's breath hitch every time he hears it. The one that reminds him of the cross, of the blood, and paralyses his mind with fascination. Their voices rise three times.  
  
"¡Viva la muerte!"  
  


  
  
He lives in a world of red and white.   
  
It invades the mirror when he glances up at himself, always quickly, unwillingly ; he sees his white face and white hair, a universe of whiteness, and there, his red eyes, like stains. The others' gaze on him have taught him disgust, and he cannot think of himself as anything other than this, a mistake ; his father's rage also, his father's gestures, always brutal, always unexpected, his father's insults. But his father never touches him. His father never talks to him, except to give him quick orders, in a slow, loud voice, like he's stupid and doesn't understand.   
  
He closes his eyes now, in the darkness of the room, and breathes in his mother's odor (soap and vinegar, a working woman's scent, unkindly, but to him it means warmth and safety). She must believe he's asleep ; and then maybe she'll feel better. She'll sigh and maybe cry a bit, as she often does, and then she'll leave the bed and he'll have to be strong and he won't move, he won't move when _he_ comes home and he has to listen to it all again, he won't move because he promised her.   
  
There are words he can't stand. Sentences that burn through his heart and make it race and his fingers tense. He yearns -  
  
"Avec quoi t'es allée t'accoupler, sale putain, pour me faire un monstre comme ça? Hein?" [1]   
  
She'll beg. It won't stop until she stops begging. Why does she always beg? He lies in his bed and prays for her to understand, and be silent.  
  
"Y a des gens qui disent que tu t'es fait engrosser par une bête! Tu sais comment ils parlent de nous? Tu sais comment ils parlent de moi? " [2]   
  
He feels so small. They call him a monster, but monsters are always strong and powerful and dangerous, like dragons (he loves dragons, loves the one yellowed book he owns because it has images of dragons, with their furious eyes and smoking mouths). That's why people are afraid of them, the real monsters, because they can do things, terrible things. But he's too small to be dangerous. He's not a monster, really. He's ugly and disgusting, but he doesn't have the power to harm.   
  
So he just curls up as tight as he can when she finally does rise and closes the door of the bedroom behind her, carefully, without a sound. And when he hears _him_ coming home he rakes his nails on the white, white skin of his arms and of his stomach. There isn't enough pain, but if he learns to take it, he will be stronger, won't he? And then maybe he can stop hiding, stop pretending to sleep, at last. 

  
  
II.  
  
 _For a moment he truly believes the young boy lying at his feet to be a fallen angel, and he catches himself looking for traces of clipped wings on his back._  
  
It takes days for his body to feel real again, for gravity and warmth and hunger to close back in on him. For days only his sight links him to the living world, and it is filled with a kind face, thin lips, dark eyes.  
  
 _It isn't the first time he nurses a weak, wounded being back to health and life. But it is the first time he feels love beyond religious compassion, and relief stronger than mere satisfaction when the boy opens his strange, red eyes._  
  
There is heat around him, and he no longer aches and starves. He sometimes falls into a half-sleep where his mother's face melts into the features of his savior.  
  
 _At first his barely breathes, barely eats, as if he isn't used to existing, used to his own corporeality. Manuel begins to doubt, and his suspicions will never truly fade, he knows. This may be an angel. It is a fact that angels are real._  
  
Now he has a body. He is not a ghost anymore. Before the earth shook and threatened to swallow the world above, he had begun to imagine that his hands became translucent, that his skin became so pale it finally faded into thin air. But he exists again.  
  
 _He feels no surprise when he learns of the prison's catastrophe, and understands where the fallen angel has come from. Time and experience have made him used to God's whispered signs, and he simply prays with gratitude._  
  
He's been given a name ; he has a name now. He toys with the syllables, rolls them around in his mind and mouth. The young priest smiles, and Silas smiles back.  
  
 _Silas' smile is hesitant and lopsided, like a shy child's. Manuel cannot help but reach out and graze his cheek, as though wiping off an invisible tear._   
  
It's just like when his mother used to touch him ; only the way his breathing stops and his chest tightens is unknown.  
  
 _Silas has so much to learn. Words and ideas that were denied him, and which he needs like food and water ; every night Manuel praises God and thanks Him for the beauty and sweetness of that mission._  
  
Every night he goes to sleep feeling full of new thoughts and knowledge, and every morning he awakes dizzy with curiosity. At first he feared his avidity might make Aringarosa weary, but he smiles when he sees Silas turn the pages and write down the words with his shaky, pale hand. Silas loves Aringarosa's smile.  
  
 _"You are robbing the house of God!" he exclaims when he catches the thieves, overcome with anger, forgetting his own slight frame and taken aback by their violence. One strike and he falls to the floor, tasting blood._  
  
It's just like when... just like her lying there, face covered in blood, powerless and hurt. But there's been the years and the street and the prison, and now Silas has a name, Silas is strong. He can break them. Now he can save the one he loves.   
  
_"Eres un angel," he lets out. The room spins, and he's lost his hold on his own words. Silas is so beautiful._  
  
The words are like a gift, warm and better than anything he's ever known. He takes Aringarosa in his arms, carries him like he weighs nothing at all. It is a triumph he cannot put in words, something that fills his chest and burns behind his eyes. The few steps to the bedroom last an eternity ; Aringarosa's delicate hand slides up on his shoulder, behind his neck.   
  
_It is almost like being carried in the arms of the Lord Himself. Is it blasphemous to let the feelings rush through, even as the blood continues to run down his face, even as he's only half-conscious and cannot control either his mind or his body? He nestles against Silas's chest and closes his eyes._   
  
He will never be afraid again.  
  
 _There is no pain left at all, now._

  
  
III.   
  
_Father Ignacio places the strange metallic instrument in his hand, and without a word undoes the front of Manuel's pants, careful not to touch him, watching every gesture. "Let me show you how the cilice is put to use," he says. "Don't be afraid, child." But Manuel's fear is weak and mute next to his curiosity. And though he tries to, he cannot fight the pride that swells inside him as he understands father Ignacio finally deems him ready. Now, he will learn the ways. At last the secrets will be revealed, and he won't be kept aside from the whispers, and the words will make sense again._  
  
Aringarosa remembers his own mentors' delicate gestures as he guides Silas' fingers and teaches them the way to tie the cilice around the white flesh of his thigh. "And here, if you feel the need to tighten it," he whispers as he unlocks it so the chain can slide through. Silas hisses and trembles, although Aringarosa's made sure not to make the blood run just yet. No need to frighten the boy away with needless precipitation. Silas keeps silent, bites back his questions and worries and sounds of pain as he feels the metal begin to pierce into his skin. He looks up to Aringarosa's face and focuses on his features, on his soft, dark skin, on the warm hand that rises to caress his cheek ; he doesn't even hear the few words of comfort the priest has spoken. His trust is full and strong, stronger than fear.   
  
_Manuel lets out a small cry of pain and surprise as the metal teeth of the cilice draw blood ; father Ignacio fixes the chain again, very tight around his thigh, and runs a quick hand through Manuel's hair. "This is to keep yourself close to Christ," he explains, looking grave and serious. "Christ has delivered us from sin through His strength and courage in the face of his own body's destruction. He didn't flinch when the Romans scourged him with sharp whips," he goes on, and begins to pull at the cilice so it bites deeper into Manuel's skin ; but now Manuel feels capable of keeping quiet, and he focuses on father Ignacio's words even as his eyes begin to sting with tears. "He didn't beg when they pushed the thorns of his mock crown into his forehead until it drew blood," he goes on, with another brutal twist. Manuel bites his lip. "He didn't give in when they stripped him naked and drove the nails through his hands and feet." Another tug, and blood runs down Manuel's thigh._   
  
"This is something I was taught as well", Aringarosa says, and Silas nods. "The injuries don't weaken us, as many would assume. Instead they give us strength. Each wound is like a brick added to the fortress of our faith."  
  
 _"In suffering, we become close to Him. We move towards the suffering of the Son, so the Father gives us the power to spread the Word and accomplish his works on this earth."_  
  
"The further you move from the surface of your self, the closer you will get to virtue ; He opened that path before us."  
  
 _"For virtue is achieved only when the self is forgotten. And so each drop of your blood shed in His name will be a step towards virtue - towards freedom."_  
  
"And each wound in your flesh, willingly borne, will be a crack in the iron of your shackles."  
  
 _"We must be free from sin, so we can be warriors in His army."_   
  
"This is our creed." Silas' eyes widen, as he understands that this thing around his thigh and the vague hints of pain it causes are a symbol, a symbol of his being welcomed into something greater, something very important to Aringarosa. Aringarosa's world is now open to him. He is ready. "Try," Aringarosa says, placing the end of the chain in Silas' hand, and Silas pulls as hard as he can, tearing his skin and making blood gush from instant, deep wounds. Aringarosa lets out a shocked cry, holds up a hand, but stops himself. Their eyes meet, and they're silent for a moment. Silas' heart begins to beat harder and faster as he reads something in Aringarosa's gaze, something warm and intense. "You are a warrior, my boy," Aringarosa whispers. Silas bows his head. The compliment is a blessing.  
  
 _"I know you understand." Father Ignacio's voice has sunk to a murmur. His black eyes don't leave Manuel's, and for the first time he is struck by the priest's young age, so contradictory to his wisdom. "I know you are ready. I know you've heard of a new order that was born in our country, Manuel. We can take part in it. You and I." Manuel tries to grasp the meaning of father Ignacio's words, but his eyes on him take away his focus ; his hands are still on the cilice, and the cilice is still on his thigh. Suddenly Manuel feels terribly exposed, and his face begins to burn. "You will be ordained soon", the priest goes on. "The organization needs warriors like yourself. We must..." But Manuel lets father Ignacio's words fade ; he is terrified, suddenly, by his own confusion. He had been waiting for that moment, yearning for it, and now that it has come he is lost, overwhelmed, and the priest's hand has slid from the cilice to his skin, and it is warm and strong. Manuel's breath hitches, and he realizes father Ignacio is no longer speaking._  
  
"You can take it off now," Aringarosa says, his voice soft and tender, but Silas doesn't want to. He wants to bleed more so Aringarosa will know that he doesn't not falter from pain, so that Aringarosa will see that he is truly a warrior - how he loves it - and that he will fight, yes, for Christ, for the Lord, and for him. He wants to see that light in Aringarosa's eyes again. "No," he whispers, with that shy voice of his, that voice he hates. "Show me again, please." And he pushes the end of the chain in Aringarosa's hand. Aringarosa shakes his head, frowning faintly. "I think you don't need more demonstration," he says. "The cilice mustn't be used without consideration, it is a powerful tool." But Silas closes his hand on Aringarosa's and moves forward. "Please," he repeats.   
  
_"Don't be afraid," the priest repeats, and his hand slides higher._  
  
Aringarosa pulls at the chain, slowly at first. But Silas' breathing is becoming audible, ragged, almost, and it is not from pain. Their eyes are locked.   
  
_Manuel moans into the priest's mouth, clings to his shoulders, pushes against the hand that's pressed between his legs. All his sinful nightmares are coming true. After this, they won't see each other again. This is their farewell, their last submission to the fault before a life of virtue and purity._   
  
Silas' eyes grow slightly wider when Aringarosa's hand reaches down there, touches that forbidden place. But the pain becomes more intense, and the pleasure follows naturally. This must be part of it. Everything Aringarosa says and does makes sense, always has, and Silas gives in.   
  
_The priest pulls violently at the cilice's chain when Manuel comes, and he cries out in pain and pleasure, bucking wildly._  
  
Silas presses the metal into his flesh with one hand, wanting more pain, and with his other hand he guides Aringarosa's so his caresses become more brutal too - more... He wants more of both, and finally he comes with a sound halfway between a sob and a growl.  
  
 _Arms tight around him, a voice soothing. "We must pray..."_  
  
They're both shaking, with emotion and love and the shock of what they have done. Red eyes seek dark ones, and ask a silent question.   
  
_There are no more words to be said. They have sinned, and they both know it ; but acknowledging it would ruin the perfection of their embrace._  
  
Their embrace is perfection, Silas thinks, and he rests his head against Aringarosa's shoulder and lets his eyes fall shut.   
  
This cannot be a sin. 

  
  
_[1] "What did you go and mate with, you dirty whore, to make a monster like this one?"_  
  
[2] "There are people who say you've gone and got pregnant by a beast! Do you know how they talk about us? How they talk about me?" 

 


End file.
